


Once More Into the Fray

by Bittercape (bittercape)



Series: Starlight [1]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Afterlife, Aggressive Caretaking, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Resurrection, Tough Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-02-23 09:15:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23842465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittercape/pseuds/Bittercape
Summary: He's Artemis' favourite. Of course he gets another chance.
Relationships: Grizzop drik Acht Amsterdam/Oscar Wilde, Grizzop drik Acht Amsterdam/Oscar Wilde/Zolf Smith
Series: Starlight [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1989772
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32
Collections: Rusty Quill Gaming Exchange 2020





	Once More Into the Fray

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nemainofthewater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemainofthewater/gifts).



> For the prompts:
> 
> \- I love people aggressively being taken care of, which means that this dynamic is very much my jam! A character who doesn't let a (sort of kind of maybe) friend not-enemy get away with the whole 'I'm fine' thing? A thing of beauty! Please feel free to include other people if you do so desire!
> 
> \- Grizzop in the afterlife, tearing out his non-existent hair as Wilde just doesn't take any of the 'take care of yourself' 'don't overwork' advice, plotting to try and get someone still living to look after him

The forest is still and quiet. Peaceful. A while ago, a flock of small birds went chattering overhead. Now, nothing moves, except the smallest rustling of leaves in a nearly nonexistent breeze. I breathe in and out in harmony with the woods around me. Slowly, like the trees. I’ve found a comfortable position as I wait, bow at the ready, an arrow resting in my hand. A small clearing lies ahead. It’s lovely, a natural opening in the woods, where flowers grow freely on a bed of grass and moss. A brook runs through to one side, meeting up with the river a few miles west. There’s an occasional rustle in the taller grass along the side of the brook, where a frog or perhaps a mouse go about whatever business they have. The sun filters through the leaves, casting patterns of light and shade on the ground. The sun moves slowly overhead, and I wait. 

The shadows are getting longer when I can sense it - a disturbance in the air, a scent, the quietest of sounds? Who knows. Between one blink of an eye and the next, my prey is there. A small deer of a sort, with lumpy growths on their back, which could perhaps have developed into wings, long ago. The animals are all different here. But so am I. I draw my bow, the slow tension of the string a prayer in itself. The muscles in my back are long used to this outdrawn, static work, and does not protest as they did in the beginning. I was made for quickness, but I have learned a different way, now. As I let my arrow fly, I know I have made a clean kill even before it hits. 

The nights are always mild here, the seasons are slow to change and never harsh. I only build a fire for roasting my meat, in case I have a companion. When I first came here, so long ago, there were only a few of us, and I could go on for what seemed like forever without meeting another. If I want to, I still can. The lands seem to expand with our numbers, but it’s easy, for me, to know when someone else is near. Tonight, I think I’m getting a visit from the Great Huntress herself, so I take care to pick a good spot for my camp, where the wind can be trusted to keep the smoke away from our eyes.

When she comes, she is silent. She always is. She comes on foot, alone, bow unstrung and relaxed along her back. We are old friends now, Artemis and I, even though she is a goddess and I am her servant. She’s not one to stand on ceremony, and as she drops down by the fire to eat, I only bow my head a little as I hand her the best piece of meat. We eat in silence, watching the moons overhead. 

“You have grown so much, Grizzop,” she says, looking at me over the fire. Her face is in shadow, but her eyes are luminescent and pale. I tilt my head, but do not answer. “You have learned so many new things while you’ve been here, and I think it’s fair for you to know.” She pauses, thinks, weighs her words. “Your own time is coming close.”

 _Ah._ There it is. I have been here longer than most, because of the planar walking. Those first years, I was obsessed with watching Sasha. I wanted to look out for her, to keep taking care of her. After all, it was my fault we ended up in the past, not that I figured that out until I stopped to think. As it turned out, she didn’t need me to look after her at all. She was so strong. I see her sometimes now, when the borders between our realms grow thin, but she stays … elsewhere. Over the years, I have lost track of time. I used to be in such a hurry, so aware of my own short lifespan, but here, I have all the time I could want. I have forever. I’m not sure how I feel about being confronted with my past, my life. It’s been decades since I watched the world of the living at all. Her hand on my shoulder brings me back, her touch blazing through me. I wonder if being touched by another god would feel the same, burning and cleansing and powerful all at once.

“Take your time, my friend. You know where to find me.” I nod, but don’t turn around as I hear her footsteps walking away through the trees. 

***

Of course I can’t resist it. I take my time thinking it over, but less than twelve nights have passed when I enter her temple. I’m not actually sure if temple is the right word, but it is where many of her servants spend their time, and where she comes, too, when she’s not hunting. It’s modest and practical, a series of interconnected, one-storey buildings in a wide half circle. Inside the half circle is the garden, a space of somewhat tamed nature and what I’m here for: the pools. I spent a lot of time here in the beginning, when I was watching over Sasha. The ones who live in the temple will see to my needs, as I stay and watch. 

And that I do. Time doesn’t seem to pass the same way in the pools as on the surface, and I get to watch many things I didn’t care to see again over the first days. I barely remember my clutch, but I am not distanced enough to not feel ripped apart by watching the dam break and nearly all of them die. I was so young then. The temple in Amsterdam. Eva. Vesseek. The hunt. When I reach Prague I have to take a break, just to gather my thoughts. It’s all so much. So fast. I can feel a long forgotten restlessness tingle in my bones. 

When I get back, we have reached Damascus. I am grateful to have skipped all the painful arguments in Cairo, but I can't imagine how it took me so long to catch on to the state Wilde was in. The man is clearly exhausted from the minute we meet him again, but we can't see it. Any of us. Is the pool making me see clearer, or were we all just that blind? Just the sight of him is making something itch along my spine. Like something was left untended to. Like unfinished business. I don’t like it.

I watch through it all, through the others’ departure for Rome, my hurried and ungentle care of Wilde, Rome … and then we are all just gone. Like we were never there. I don’t know what I expected, really. But as I stare at the empty, shimmering heat over the ruins of Rome through the water, my thoughts return to Wilde. And so does my view. 

That man does _not_ take proper care of himself. He keeps working himself to the bone, gathering intelligence from all over the world, reading reports, not eating enough, not sleeping enough. It’s a miracle he’s still standing. I don’t know what to do. Wilde is … important, somehow. I’m not sure when that happened, or why, or what it means, but I keep watching him. I keep watching as he leaves Damascus, leaves the Meritocrats behind, finds Curie and makes his way east. Nobody notices, or cares, that he’s working himself to death. It makes me angry. I haven’t felt like this since I was alive. All this white hot fury in my belly, all this impatience and restlessness. I don’t know what to do about any of it. 

She comes for me in the evening, when the sun has moved behind the taller trees and the pool is in shadow. The grass has grown long around me while I’ve been watching. She is gentle when she strokes my ears back, but her touch is still intense and burning as ever. I have been biting the edge of my ear again, a stress relief I thought I had rid myself of before my first mission. Of course she knows. She knows everything about me, and she loves me still. I lean against her side as she keeps stroking my ears. It’s bearable, after a while. I sigh as I try to keep my restlessness in check.

“This is important to you,” she says, contemplatively. I nod, but don’t speak. “If you could, would you go back?” I sit up and stare at her. She is ethereal. Otherworldly. Unfathomable. And still, she’s here beside me, solid and real, her love embracing me like a physical thing. I can’t imagine leaving, and yet, at the possibility of going back, to find Wilde, to make sure he’s taken care of … I can’t _not_.

“He’s important. I don’t know how or why, but it’s so difficult seeing him like this.” I can’t really explain what this is, but I know it will keep bothering me forever if I don’t do something. And I understand forever, now. She, however, knows me better than I know myself.

“He’s pack.” 

“... yeah. I guess he is.”

She nods, slowly, thinking. “Yes. Come back here in the morning, and you can go back. I sense it won’t be for long, but you will have time to set matters right.”

I feel tears gather in my eyes from the gratitude and love I have for her. I know I am special to her, and I don’t know why, but I am so, so thankful she understands and will grant me this. Her hands return to my ears, her touch almost pleasant now, like the buzz of a tattoo needle after the initial cut and burn. In a while, I will take my leave to go get some rest. But not yet. Not yet. 

***

I wake up in a bush. It’s quite comfortable, for a bush, and wherever I am, it’s raining. The cover from the bush is not quite enough to keep me dry, but it’s better than nothing. The air is very warm, even the wind does nothing to cool me down. The air smells unfamiliar but pleasant, and I can easily make out the traces of Wilde. He should be close by. I focus and follow my nose.

He’s sleeping rough, which I’m surprised by. He’s managed a simple shelter from tarpaulin and rope, and appears to be sleeping lightly with his head on his pack. Anyone less stealthy than me would no doubt have woken him, but I take care to stay downwind and noiseless. I sit crouched and watch him for a while. He’s skinny rather than slender, now. His hair has grown out a bit from when I cut it in Damascus, but it’s growing out messily and curls more than I thought it would. He clearly hasn’t shaved in a while, and his beard is scruffy and uneven. He stirs, and his breathing changes the slightest amount. He’s awake, and he knows someone is here, but he doesn’t yet know if it’s friend or enemy. Or whatever I am to him, I suppose.

“Wotcher,” I say, and his eyes fly open, hand bringing out a knife. He’s up in a crouch and ready to fight a lot faster than I expected. This man is a long way away from the styled and elegant Oscar Wilde I used to know, but it seems like whatever has happened has exposed the core of him, more than changed him. Perhaps he’s always been like this, underneath. He doesn’t drop his knife, but keeps looking at me silently and warily. 

“Wilde?” I can hear the uncertainty in my own voice, but frankly I am uncertain. What’s going on with him? 

“Who are you?” His hand is perfectly still and his eyes don’t flicker away from me for even a second. 

“How many goblin paladins of Artemis do you know? It’s me, Grizzop.”

“Grizzop went to Rome. Nobody comes back from Rome.”

I wince. That’s true enough, I didn’t come back from Rome. Well. I came back the long way around. Sasha didn’t come back at all. I don’t know about the others. 

“Anything I can do to convince you?” I honestly don’t know when I acquired that pleading tone to my voice, but it seems to work. He straightens up a little, but his knife remains in his hand and his eyes are still unwavering.

“Tell me something only he would know.” 

I’m drawing a blank here. What would only I know? Mind, it’s only been two thousand years since I talked to him last, so I guess I could be forgiven for only remembering one thing when put on the spot.

“... you love a bit of sausage?” He barks a surprised laugh at that.

“True enough, but not exactly top secret information. Keep going.”

I sigh. “I punched you in the genitals in Prague ‘cos you were being a racist dick. I lost all my arrows to playing cards with Sasha while waiting for you outside Damascus. I picked you up when you were bleeding out of your face after the others had left for Rome. I cut your hair. You sent me to the most incompetent terrorist cell in the western world in order for me to get to Rome. I don’t know if I have any more, Wilde, come on man.” I can feel my leg twitching with impatience while I watch him consider. And all of a sudden, his knife hand drops, along with his shoulders and his eyes and his entire demeanour. 

“I guess if you’re not Grizzop I’m fucked either way. Have a seat.” He drops to sit on his bed roll and I sit cross-legged on the ground, starting the fire he had prepared the night before. He looks like shit. Well, he looks slightly better than he did back in Damascus. At least he’s no longer bleeding out of his face. But he still looks exhausted.

“How did you find me?” 

Not an easy question to answer, unfortunately. I prefer to have some time to think about that, so I ask him to tell me what has happened, first. And so he does. I don’t know whether he actually trusts that I’m me or if he’s just given up, but he tells me more than he probably should. About leaving Damascus and the Meritocrats, meeting up with some of the higher-ranking Harlequins, about London and Paris breaking down and a mysterious disease rising from the ruins. About needing to find out more about the Japanese side of things. About going ahead to set up a base before getting more people. About losing his entire security net in one blow. No wonder he’s exhausted. 

And so I tell him in return. About Rome. About Eldarion. About the Hand of Hades. About falling through the planes and ending up in ancient Rome and the dragons. And Sasha. Brave, amazing Sasha, being left all alone in the past, and building an entire wonderful life out of nothing. Finally free. And about the long time of the endless hunt, until I had to come back. 

He turns his face away while I talk about Sasha. I’ve had a long time to think about her, and even to talk to her, but to him it’s clearly a heavy blow. Even though he had already counted us all as dead from the moment we left, it’s a different thing to have it confirmed. I leave him be and make us a cup of tea. 

His eyes are red when he accepts the cup, but he’s otherwise composed. 

***

We travel overland for a few weeks. Except for a few ambushes by robbers along the way, it’s an easy journey. Wilde does better when traveling with company, it seems, and he puts back on a little weight, enough to no longer look scraped to the bone. A few days before we reach our first destination, a little harbour where a ship will take us the rest of the way, he even bothers to shave. It’s very much an improvement. He almost looks like the Wilde I first met in Prague. That is, if you don’t look too closely at his eyes. He has a new wariness to him, he’s more on guard than he used to be. Comes from having his entire backup ripped away, I imagine. 

The ship journey is long and boring. I probably would have exploded from it before, but even though I can feel my old impatience creeping back in, I manage to control it. Mostly. Wilde and I stay in our cabin most of the time. He often reads out loud to me, which is another exercise in patience. It’s nice, but it’s also so very slow it drives me to the edge of desperation. Most nights we play cards, and I am in significant debt to him before long. I just can’t care about winning. Nevertheless, it’s nice to have something to do. 

It’s a calm evening when he puts down the cards. The rigging moves slowly and rhythmically above deck, the ropes stretching and relaxing with the waves. He pours us both drinks from his expensive bottle of whisky. It’s very different from Azu’s moonshine, full of different flavours. Smelling it is almost disorienting. It’s obvious he has something to say. This I can wait for, though. This is like a hunt, waiting for the prey to come within range. It’s the kind of patience I can handle. So I wait, while he drinks in silence and refills our glasses.

“Grizzop,” he says, voice a little rusty. _Finally_. I wiggle a little in my seat. Not entirely cured of impatience yet.

“Grizzop, you said something when you found me, that I didn’t really understand. But I would like to apologize to you, for being racist. I wasn’t intentional, but I don’t think that’s an excuse.” He looks at his hands, and it’s clear he really is sorry. I don’t quite know how to respond. I wasn’t prepared for an apology. 

“Well, just … don’t do it again, yeah?” I try to shrug it off, uncomfortable.

“The thing is,” he continues, still looking at his hands, rather than at me, “I don’t really know what it was I did. Could you … could you explain?” I sigh. This is going to need another drink. 

I’m not sure if it’s the emotional conversation or the whisky, but I feel completely drained when I wake up. Wilde was apparently either too drunk or too tired to crawl into his top bunk, and is huddled at the foot end of my bed, sleeping. Watching him makes my neck hurt in sympathy, so I tip him over to at least make him lie down. The bed is at least three feet too long for me anyway. 

When I wake back up I feel a little better and also a lot warmer. Wilde has stretched out in his sleep and I’m cuddled up against him like some kind of cat. I scramble away so fast I fall right out of the bed on my arse. Elegant, Grizzop. Well done. The thump, or possibly the scramble, wakes Wilde up, and he looks completely confused for a second before laughing like a maniac. I don’t think I’ve seen him this amused ever. Unfortunately, it’s at my expense. 

“Yeah, laugh it up, you lanky bastard,” I grumble, punching him lightly in the arm as soon as I have my feet back under me. “I thought you apologised for being a dick.”

“Oh darling,” he replies from under my blanket, “I apologised for being racist. I won’t stop being a dick any time soon.” My only answer is to toss a half-drunk cup of water over his head before I leave the cabin to get coffee. 

Weirdly, everything feels easier after that. I’m still restless, but less tense. I get to do some work up in the rigging from time to time - I’m a decent climber and light enough to have no impact on the sails or whatever. It helps with the boredom, and I also get paid a little bit for my time. We keep playing cards. He keeps falling asleep in my bunk when we stay up late. I keep not really minding. It’s nice. Comforting. And I think it makes him feel better too. 

After a full three weeks at sea, he tries taking off his anti-magic shackle. It doesn’t go particularly well, at least in the sense that he doesn’t sleep. And unless he sleeps, there’s no way we can find out if it’s still needed. On the third day he’s so tired his speech is slurring, and I decide enough is enough.

“What are you trying to achieve by this? Are you trying to kill yourself _again_?” I can feel my old fury coming back to me. Why won’t he just find out? What use is this?

“Just drop it, Grizzop,” he sighs, and tries to walk away. Well that’s not going to happen. I tackle him at the knees and we both crash to the floor. I scramble up to straddle his chest, stabbing him with my finger as I speak.

“No! I won’t drop it! I won’t watch you do this to yourself! I won’t allow it! Why would you try to exhaust yourself like this? Are you _trying_ to be completely useless?” His face drains of colour. Now what?

“Useless?” His voice is a malicious hiss. “I’ve been doing nothing but trying my best to be of use to the world since what you told me in Damascus, I’ll have you know. So while I'm aware I matter nothing to you beyond my usefulness, I’ll thank you to keep your accusations to yourself. Now drop it.” The last part is nearly growled, threatening. I feel my arms fall to my side, uncontrollably giving in, before taking my power back. What is he talking about? What …

“Shut up! Shut up! I came back from the Elysian fields for you! If that doesn’t tell you you matter, I have no idea what will!”

“What?” 

“What!” Oh. I might not have mentioned why I came back. Oops. He sits up too abruptly, and I scramble back to my feet. Now I’m the one wanting to leave, but he’s blocking the door. The porthole is large enough for me to get through, but can I get up on deck from there? Maybe if I get an arrow with a rope …

“Don’t even think about it,” he growls. Oh, bugger it all. I sit back down on the floor. He scoots to lean back against the door, and pulls me after, next to him, so that I can lean against his side and not have to look at him. It feels unexpectedly considerate, and reminds me of my last night with Artemis. 

“What do you mean you came back for me?” His voice is quiet now, more like I’m used to hearing it. Undemanding. This is another thing we’ll need to talk about, clearly. But I won’t be off the hook until I explain. So I do my best. Pack isn’t easy to understand unless you’re one of us. Unless you’ve joined the hunt and felt its pull. But somehow, he is mine. Almost like family, but not quite. And I have to protect him. Keep him safe. If he doesn’t understand, he at least seems to accept it at face value. 

“Why won’t you sleep?” I try to be gentle when I ask. I’m not good at gentle, but I can try. He sighs, deeply.

“I’m afraid to.” He sounds ashamed, like fear isn’t something we all feel. Fear is healthy. It keeps you cautious. I try to tell him, but he doesn’t seem to get it. “You don’t understand .. the nightmares, they are horrible. Worse than anything I’ve experienced before. And I can’t get out of them without being woken up.” He shivers. And yeah, I can understand that. But he’s being silly too. 

“I’m here, Wilde. I can wake you up.” He makes a soft sound, like he still doesn’t want to. But I pull him towards the lower bunk, get in and drag him in after me, pulling the blankets up and settling in close. 

“I’m here. I’ll take care of you, Oscar.” He sighs and turns a little, and is out like a light. 

***

When we finally disembark at a small harbour town on the west side of Japan, I nearly drag him off the boat, eager to get moving. Over the last stretch of our journey, we have settled into a comfortable rhythm with a lot more casual closeness than I have ever experienced before. It’s nice. Comfortable. Still, no amount of co-sleeping and card games will stop me from finally running off some energy now that I’m back on solid ground. Oscar haggles for a horse with a local merchant, while I prefer to stay on my feet, free to move as I please. On my insistence we move out straight away, and I can feel a multitude of small knots in my back loosen and disappear as I finally get to _move_ again. We make camp after a few hours on the road, and I leave Oscar to set up a shelter for the constant rain while I go hunting. It doesn’t take me long to find the tracks of some rabbits, and before long I return with three of them, a perfect little dinner. 

We reach our final destination for the time being the next evening, a small cottage on the outskirts of a larger town. We settle in easily, and soon it feels like we’ve always been here. It’s domestic, to the degree I can stand it. I wasn’t made for staying still for long periods, so I often go out hunting. When I leave one day, much like any other, Oscar absentmindedly kisses me. It’s nice. It’s more than nice. I don’t leave that day after all. 

Oscar sets up a network of information by whichever means he uses, and I go on short missions gathering intelligence, usually no longer than a week. When I return from one of these missions, a failed attempt at finding information on an elusive alchemist, our household has expanded by one: a grumpy dwarf with a peculiar, stiff walk. Zolf Smith. I remember Hamid talking about him with Sasha, but he doesn’t seem much like the person they described. He seems to be suspicious of me and to actively dislike Oscar, but I suppose he must be useful in some way. He makes up the bed in the second bedroom and only scowls a little when Oscar and I retire to the same room, so I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. 

“Where did he come from?” I ask Oscar as I’m curled up against him, the habitual closeness a comfort after days on the road. 

“From Cairo,” he answers, and huffs when I elbow him in the ribs. “Yes, alright. I asked for him. I trust him.” I shrug at this. I don’t know him yet, but I’ll accept Oscar’s judgment on the matter. 

Zolf Smith turns out to be a useful addition. Not only is he a far better cook than either Oscar or me, but he’s also a more than decent fighter, as I find out on our first joint mission. Some areas are more troubled with robbers and gangs than others, and I usually manage to avoid them. But I would undoubtedly have been killed in this ambush had Zolf not been with me. It helps us grow closer. Neither of us are much in favour of unnecessary talk about emotions, but he fits with Oscar and me, somehow. And he understands my relationship with Artemis far better than Oscar does. Even though he has left his god, he understands. 

***

It happens so suddenly. I’ve settled into a rhythm here. I fit in. I’m part of a team, a small pack, in a more fundamental way than I’ve experienced before, even with Sasha and Azu and Hamid. We work so well together. So when it hits, it’s completely unexpected.

I know Oscar has enemies. I even know who most of them are. But when he goes to meet a potential recruit, someone he knew back in London, Zolf and I only join him into town because it’s convenient. I need to pick up a new set of bracers after my old ones have been stretched out from the humidity. Zolf is keen to look at some new components to work on his flying boots. It’s just a coincidence I see it when he’s hit on the back of the head and dragged into an alley. I yell for Zolf as loudly as I can manage and run after him, finding a locked door, climbing the wall to get inside somehow, quick, quick … I think I see Zolf’s white hair just poking around the corner as I break the window and dive through, flipping in the air like Sasha and landing in a crouch. The room is large and bare, looks to be an abandoned sports hall of some kind. There are seven men surrounding Oscar, who seems to be disoriented, but at least he’s standing. None of them have noticed me. I can feel my lip draw back in a snarl as I draw my crossbow and shoot two of them through the neck in quick succession. Oscar is no help yet. I jump onto one of the men’s back and have his throat cut before the first two hit the floor, and then there are four of them. Good odds. I engage the one seeming like the boss, and try to be as quick as possible. I can take them all, I can, I will, but I need to be quick. Distantly, as from a long way away, I can hear thumping on the door, creaking of hinges. Zolf. I hope he’s quick about it.

As I skewer my opponent though, I can hear a gasp that’s definitely Oscar. I turn around to see the one on the left pull Oscar's hair back to expose his neck, and instead drag the blade over Oscar's face from his cheekbone to his chin, and then the other two - no. Not again. I have seconds, so I fire two bolts nearly as one, and then throw my dagger at the last man standing. They are all down as I drop to my knees next to Oscar. He’s got two swords pushed right through his stomach, and I can see the horribly familiar sight of blood trickling from his mouth. I have no other option. I have to protect him. As the door finally bangs open to Zolf’s spells, I cast Paladin’s Sacrifice for the second time, and I can feel all the damage done to Oscar’s insides punch through me at once. It’s no more pleasant this time around. 

Oscar gives a rattling breath. Zolf drops down beside me and raises a hand to heal, but it’s too late. I can feel Artemis’ hand. 

“No,” I whisper, and Zolf leans close. “Take care of him. He trusts nobody else.” Zolf closes his eyes. “I’ll see you both again,” I say, and the last thing I hear is Oscar’s scream as he rouses. 

***

It all works out. I knew it would. How could it not? I lean against Artemis once more as we watch Oscar and Zolf heal together. Watch Oscar put on a mask of coldness and distance. He’s good at it, I must admit. He keeps his scar. He keeps staring at it in the mirror, stroking it when he’s thinking, shading it with his hand when he’s around other people. The first time Zolf kisses his scar, I feel a twinge of pain combined with joy that my pack is caring for each other. For now, they have a war to fight. And one way or the other, we’ll meet again in the garden of Artemis. 


End file.
